The Skull and the Nightingale (43 page)

“Meanwhile,” said I, “let us go and drink some wine.”

And this we did. I had never felt less convivial, but it seemed necessary to put on a show of careless good cheer. I contrived a passable imitation, but it left me empty. The worst of it was that as we drank and chattered I had no space to think. Only when I returned home two hours later, with my head none too clear, could I attempt to review the changing situation.

Sarah must now be in a state of bewilderment and suspense. On the very night of our planned assignation, and perhaps when I was still in the vicinity, her husband had been unaccountably lurking nearby. Then, as would soon emerge, he had vanished forever. She could not but look for meaning in this coincidence. Whatever she felt or suspected, however, she could surely say nothing. To implicate me would be to implicate herself. Yet there would surely be an inquiry of some kind, and it could come close to me: I might have to nerve myself to feel its breath on the back of my neck. But still my one reassurance remained a strong one: that Ogden’s body, already decomposing, would never be found.

In any case, nothing further could happen until a succession of horses had relayed from Malvern the news that Ogden had never arrived. There would be two or three more days of suspense through which I would have to perform the part of my usual self as persuasively as I could manage. Perhaps fortunately for me the weather proved poor, with gusty winds and a good deal of rain. It seemed reasonable that I should choose to stay within doors, and perhaps understandable, given the dark skies, that my manner should be a little subdued.

My dealings with Mrs. Deacon, though civil enough, had yet to return to their former cordiality. Partly to occupy the time and partly as a small step toward regaining her confidence, I ventured on another game of chess with her daughter, Charlotte, in the parlor downstairs. To stiffen my sinews for the encounter I pretended to myself that here was a model of my present predicament: I would safely survive it if I could win this game. Perhaps as a consequence I captured more pieces, and held out somewhat longer than on previous occasions, but I was still comfortably defeated by this quiet child.

As I was congratulating her afterward I found myself saying, on impulse: “Wait here a moment. I have something to give you as a reward for your prowess.”

I went upstairs and fetched the bangle that had been intended for Kitty.

“Please accept this gift,” I said. “It is too old for you now, but one day you can wear it. I value it because it belonged to my mother.”

Charlotte, though tongue-tied, was blushingly grateful. Mrs. Deacon, who had been present throughout, sewing while we played, smiled warmly and said: “You are a generous man, Mr. Fenwick.”

I returned to my rooms ashamed of myself. Why had I told that silly lie about my mother? Could I do nothing now that was not tainted by deviousness? I sat alone as the evening darkened, my spirits darkening with it.

Chapter 24

T
he story soon came to public attention. In the
London Chronicle
was a prominent item:

Mr. Walter Ogden
,
a prosperous dealer in diamonds and ornamental glass
,
has disappeared in mysterious circumstances. It is feared that he may have come to harm. On the morning of 4th September, Mr. Ogden
,
who has an office in Duke Street
,
set out by stagecoach for Malvern
,
to fulfill a professional engagement at the home of Lord Downs. For reasons as yet unknown, it seems that he broke off his journey at Aylesbury and returned to London: he was seen entering his office that same night. Since then there has been no word from him
;
but his hat was picked up in Margaret Street
,
close to the house in which he lives. His affairs were in good order
,
and it appears that he had intended to resume his journey to Malvern. Mr. Ogden is thirty-eight years of age. He is of medium height and stocky build. A reward will be given
,
with no questions asked
,
to any member of the public producing information that might bear on this matter. Application should be made to Mr. Gow
,
at Mr. Ogden’s Duke Street office.

I read the announcement repeatedly, trying to guess what dangers it might pose, but it did not take me far. I was sure that on that dark wet night there had been nobody to see Ogden chasing after me or the skirmish that ensued. Pike and I had hidden the body where no passerby, even had there been one, would have noticed it. What left me still in doubt and some fear was my ignorance of what came next. I could only guess that the corpse had been thrown into a covered cart of some sort to be taken away. The task would never have been attempted until the street was empty. When it came to the work to be done at the river, those concerned would know what they were about: after all, their own lives would be at risk. I clung to my hope that Pike was right, that there was no trail to follow.

As I anticipated, Matt Cullen called that very morning, ready to show me the
Chronicle
if I had missed it. Apparently he had had no further chance to talk with Gow, but had paid a visit to Margaret Street and seen reward notices, worded very much like the newspaper reports, pasted up on posts and walls.

“Surely they will come to nothing,” said I. “If the watch had seen anything suspicious, they would have reported it already. This is a prosperous district: who would be abroad so late at night?”

“Other than yourself,” said Matt. “But you miss the point. The telltale phrase, as always in such cases, is ‘with no questions asked.’ There is the hope that one robber might inform upon another.”

“Assuming that a robbery took place . . .”

“What else could have happened?”

“For example,” I said, forcing myself to improvise, “Ogden broke his journey to spend a night with his mistress, but died in her bed of an apoplexy.”

“And the hat?”

“It was blown away by the wind as Ogden trotted to his lady’s door.”

“Perhaps she poisoned him for the money in his pockets,” said Cullen, pleased with this new fancy.

“Or stabbed him with a kitchen knife,” I suggested. “In either case she would drag his body down to her cellar and will be safe from detection.”

“Unless a neighbor heard his dying squeal,” concluded Matt with satisfaction.

I laughed as best I could.

That very afternoon I sent my godfather a copy of the report in the
Chronicle
. It would no doubt soon have come to his attention in any case, and I wished to show my readiness to correspond on the Ogden mystery.

A
t about this time I was sent a printed invitation which distracted me from my preoccupation but then led me back to it:

MR. THOMAS CROCKER is proposing to renounce,

in great measure, his previous indulgence in tavern hospitality and mischief

(although the pleasures of talk and song will not be forsworn).

ACCORDINGLY he is to host a species of farewell entertainment

which he hereby invites you to attend.

It will be held, as tradition dictates, at the Seven Stars, in Coventry Street,

as from eight o’clock on the night of Friday next.

Crocker had written below, in his own hand: “I hope to see you there. It has been some little time since we talked.”

I immediately resolved to attend. Crocker’s hint of reproach was justified: the length of time that had elapsed since I had contacted him might soon begin to seem a suspicious circumstance in its own right. It would be convenient to see him again in a convivial gathering with only limited opportunity for private conversation. There could be awkward questions about my abandonment of Kitty and possibly about my interest in Mrs. Ogden.

T
ime had slowed to a crawl, and the period of suspense was the more oppressive to me in that I was denied my habitual distractions. When waking in the morning, I would wonder how to occupy myself. Two or three times I hid myself under greatcoat and hat and walked along the river or out into the country. But I had lost my taste for such expeditions, and nothing I saw could distract me for long. My efforts to avoid thinking about the danger I was in had so constricted my mind that it was almost lifeless.

Jaded by this nullity, I went out late one night, with a fast-beating heart, and made my way to Margaret Street. It was as calm and quiet as ever: I was no doubt the only person who had ever killed a man in that vicinity. Glancing about to be sure I was unseen, I walked directly past Mrs. Kinsey’s house, and even slipped stealthy fingers into the empty crevice where Sarah and I had hidden our messages. Would she be asleep at this moment, some few feet above my head, or would she have returned to her home? I thought of her with pity, but without desire. In a shadowy corner the other side of the street I could make out the archway where Ogden must have been lurking, frantic with jealousy, on the night of his death.

The nocturnal placidity of these prosperous streets proved unexpectedly reassuring. It confirmed my sense that the skirmish with Ogden had been a freak of chance, scarcely to be credited. Now it was over, leaving no trace, surviving solely in my own memory. With each passing day the recollection would fade and dwindle. When I had erased it altogether—and I had always had a gift for forgetting—all that would remain would be a disappearance, a nothingness.

The following morning, as a further gesture of unconcern, I paid a brief call on Mr. Ward. To my surprise he mentioned Ogden immediately, saying that my godfather had shown a particular interest in his story. He had written to Ward about the matter as soon as he learned of Ogden’s failure to arrive in Malvern. Having effected the introduction that had led to the planned visit to Malvern, he claimed to feel a certain responsibility for what had ensued. Following his instructions, Ward had sent him any newspaper reports that bore on the matter. I was relieved that I had done the same thing, and could not, therefore, be suspected of any failure of openness.

The sight of Ward immersed in his day’s work, black-clad and sober as ever, seemed almost a rebuke. Here was a life slow and steady, all of a piece with that of Thorpe or Mrs. Deacon. Meanwhile I had become a creature of another kind, living at a different rate. I could be swept away at any time by helter-skelter intrigue or accident. I recalled the highwayman Jack Gardiner, who had looked me in the eye so familiarly on his way to the gallows. Perhaps he and I and Pike were three of a kind, foxes among sheep, hungry, free, and dangerous, compelled always to be on our guard against those who would hunt us down.

I
delayed my arrival at the Seven Stars until after ten o’clock. The chamber in which Crocker’s friends were assembled was noisy and hot, the air heavy with the vapors of punch and the smoke of candles. So much I could have anticipated. Yet somehow the disposition and mood of the gathering were unfamiliar. There was not the sense, as in the past, that Crocker was the central and presiding figure; indeed at first I did not so much as notice him. My own business was to be seen and to appear to be my habitual self. Fortunately for these purposes most of the guests were standing rather than sitting. I moved briskly about the throng, initiating exchanges here and there, but avoiding longer conversation. Among those I spoke to were Latimer and Talbot. Neither Pike nor Horn appeared to be present. Crocker was seated in a far corner, engaged, as it seemed, in serious conversation. Catching sight of me, he motioned me to approach. I pushed my way across and seated myself close to him so that we could hear each other amid the chatter and laughter.

“I am glad to see you here,” said Crocker without warmth.

“I am delighted to be here.” Then, trying to find a tone of easy banter: “So your resolution has not changed: you are still minded to withdraw from the world?”

“I am,” said Crocker, still unsmiling. “I own a large town house. I have somehow acquired a consort. And as a result I now find myself a little sickened by excess. I told you, I think, that my masquerade went further than I had intended. There were outcomes I had not foreseen.”

I tried to steer away from this dangerous ground: “Will you be offering more decorous entertainments in future?”

“Possibly,” said Crocker. He continued in a sharper voice: “You know that Kitty Brindley is now under the protection of Mr. Horn?”

“I do. The blame is all mine: I behaved badly at your masquerade. I had drunk too much to be sure how badly. But Nick is a good fellow in his way.”

Regretful as I was, my attempt to appear so sounded hollow to my own ears.

“On a topic perhaps related: have you read the strange reports concerning our acquaintance Mr. Ogden?”

Ready for some such a question, I responded with animation: “Most certainly. I have taken a particular interest in the matter, since it was my godfather who first spoke of him to Lord Downs.”

Crocker continued grave: “It is disturbing to hear of a man vanishing so close to his own house. Have you an opinion as to what may have happened?”

“I have not. As you yourself have said, Ogden was a strange fellow. Perhaps he was caught up in dangerous dealings we knew nothing of.”

“Perhaps . . .” After a pause, uncomfortable to me, Crocker added: “His wife was a childhood friend of yours, as I recall. Jane saw you with her at the masquerade. But there are questions one does not ask. Have you visited her?”

I tried, unconvincingly to myself, to offer an easy answer:

“Not as yet. I felt a delicacy about intruding—most particularly about seeming to offer condolences where perhaps none are needed.”

Crocker nodded absently, and seemed to dismiss the topic: “Ogden’s disappearance found an echo. A few nights ago Trinculo somehow made his escape.”